


oh, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Creeper Elias Bouchard, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Gaslighting, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I guess that's what you would call this, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Whump, sexual exploitation?, shoehorned in clumsily at the end but it's there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25704880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Part of the job of an Archivist is to secure funding.The Magnus Institute is much the same in that regard.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Others, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Comments: 10
Kudos: 111
Collections: Anonymous





	oh, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know man I don't know

“So, I just have to...” 

Elias smiles, tracing his finger down Jon’s spine. “You’ll know when we get inside,” he says, letting his hand rest on the small of his back. 

Jon bites his lip, wringing his hands. “Uh...okay. If you say so...” 

Elias chuckles. “Just try to be polite and make small talk, alright? You can do that, can’t you?” 

“I-I suppose so...” Jon says, his hands shaking. “Elias, are you sure I need to be here—“ 

“Jon.” Elias’s other hand comes up and grabs one of Jon’s, giving it a tight squeeze. “This is part of your duties. I can assure you, you’re going to be an essential piece here.” 

“A-alright...” Jon swallows, squeezing his hand back. 

Elias is sure being...tactile right now, but Jon doesn’t necessarily mind it. The touch is grounding, in an odd sort of way, giving him something to focus on other than the trembling in his knees. He feels dangerously tempted to lean back into his chest, letting Elias hold him (which, in a way, he already kind of is). 

They stay like that for a few more moments, Elias rubbing his back soothingly. Eventually, though, someone walks past them, and Jon breaks away self consciously. 

“We...we should...” 

“Right. Of course.” Elias smiles, and he offers his arm. Jon takes it quickly, and he lets Elias lead him into the warm glow flowing out from the doors. 

* * *

“Have a drink, Jon.” 

Elias’s hand brushes against Jon’s back, making him jump. He spins around, turning to see Elias standing behind him with two glasses of wine in his hand. 

Elias smiles, reaching over and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “You seem tense. You need to relax, dear,” he says, handing one of the glasses over. “You won’t convince anyone of anything if you’re standing silently in the corner.” 

“...right,” Jon says quietly, hesitantly taking the glass from his hand. He sends a nervous glance around the room, and even though there’s nothing glaringly out of place, the quiet conversation surrounding him is making him uneasy. 

“It’s okay, Jon. Take a drink,” Elias says softly. 

Jon does. He takes a long, slow sip, hoping it’ll settle his nerves. 

“There you go. There’s a good boy,” Elias whispers, and it makes goosebumps ripple down Jon’s arms. “Let that loosen you up a bit.” 

Jon squirms, both at Elias’s words and the way his eyes rake over his body. He doesn’t really know what to make of any of it, so he does his best to put it out of his mind. He takes another sip and shifts his weight, trying to lessen the weird discomfort settling over him like a cloud. 

“Let me introduce you to some of our donors,” Elias says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I’m sure they’re going to _love_ you.” 

His smile seems slightly off, but Jon shrugs it off, letting himself lean into the touch. “Okay,” he says, letting Elias whisk him away towards the crowd. 

* * *

It’s getting hard to stay focused on the conversation. Jon doesn’t know why (it could be the wine, he has downed the entire glass at this point), but the room spins around him, the edges of his vision fuzzy. 

He swears that someone’s saying something to him (one of the Lukases, he thinks? God, it’s hard to think) and he attempts to respond. It’s difficult, though, and not only because he has no idea what was said. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and all that comes out when he tries to speak is a low groan. 

Someone turns him around, and he looks up to see Elias’s blurry face staring down at him. 

“...’s ready?” 

“Supp...so. He...enough...” 

Jon doesn’t understand. He’s tired. He’s so, so tired. He tries to tell Elias, and he thinks he’s semi successful in slurring out his name, but the man just laughs. 

“Oh Jon,” Elias murmurs, stroking his face and cupping his cheek. “Y...do...proud...” 

The rest of what he says is completely incomprehensible. It makes terror sink deep into the pit of Jon’s belly, and whimpers. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He wants to go home. 

Elias laughs again, and then his hands are on Jon’s shoulders. He whips him around, the spinning making Jon’s stomach lurch, and then suddenly he’s shoving him forward. Jon stumbles, and he finds himself face planting into someone else’s chest, the scent of sea salt and whiskey flooding his nostrils. 

Someone takes the wine glass from his hand, and he finds himself being half carried, half dragged away from Elias. He tries to fight, to scream, call out, _something_ , but his bones feel heavy, his head tipping forward against the chest of whoever’s holding him. 

The room he’s taken into is dark. The doors shut with a soft click, and suddenly he’s plunged into a world of hands and sweat. 

* * *

When the door opens again, Jon is sticky, his clothes absent from his body. He doesn’t know how long he’s been laying there. He thinks he might’ve dozed off at some point. 

Or rather, blacked out. 

He doesn’t want to think about it. 

“I believe they’re done with you?” Elias’s voice asks. 

Jon doesn’t answer. He’s still so tired. 

Elias comes over and kneels down next to him. His hand runs over his hair, despite the—despite what’s caking it. 

“You did so good. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” he says softly. He strokes his hair for a few more moments, before draping a blanket over him, scooping him up into his arms. 

A faint part of Jon feels relieved to be wrapped up like this. Another, deeper part of him feels angry. He thinks there’s also a part of him that’s scared, given the tremors running through him. 

Mostly though, he just _aches_. He drops his head against Elias’s shoulder and dozes off again, slipping into an uneasy rest as he’s carried away. 

* * *

He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. The sheets feel soft against his bare skin, and he quickly realizes that he’s still naked. He feels cleaner now, at least, the stickiness gone from his hair and skin, though he’s not really sure how to feel about that. 

He lays there for a while, drifting in and out of consciousness. He finally starts to fully wake up when he hears the door open, and he opens his eyes to see Elias drifting into his view. 

“Hello, Jon,” Elias says. He sets down whatever he’s holding in his arms (Jon’s clothes, he realizes dully) and comes over to him, sitting on the bed next to him. “How are you feeling, dear?” 

Jon stares up at him vacantly for a moment. Then, suddenly, a surge of anger hits his chest, and he sits up, despite the waves of pain rippling through him. 

“Are you kidding?” he asks, his voice raspy. His throat is so dry that speaking hurts. He doesn’t care. 

Elias hums, tilting his head and regarding him thoughtfully. “I should’ve brought you some water,” he says, reaching over and running his hand over Jon’s forehead. 

“You...you drugged me, didn’t you?” Jon asks shakily, his eyes burning. 

“Hmm. That’s quite an accusation,” Elias says, his hand lingering on his cheek. “I think you just had too much to drink last night. Poor thing.” 

“I had one glass!” 

“Did you?” Elias’s thumb rubs little circles against his skin. “I truly don’t remember.” 

“I-I did...” Right? Didn’t he? He can’t remember either. His head hurts. 

“Hmm. If you say so,” Elias says, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

Jon snarls. He doesn’t pull away, though. The warmth of Elias’s hand on his cheek and lips on his forehead cuts through the cool air of the bedroom, and he can’t help but lean into it slightly. 

Elias smiles, and it's...affectionate. Or at least something close. “You should get dressed. I’ll make dinner for us.” 

Dinner? How long has he been sleeping? “I wanna go home,” he says shakily, fear once again creeping into his chest. 

“I’ll take you home afterwards,” Elias says. 

“I wanna go home _now_.” 

“You need to eat first.” 

The tingle of fear spreads down Jon’s spine as Elias leans in, and it seeps into his skin and bones as their lips touch. Jon lifts his hands and presses them against Elias’s shoulders, fully intending on pushing him away, but... 

...he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t want this. Or, at least, he thinks he doesn’t. He can’t stop shaking. 

It only lasts for a moment. Elias pulls back, and he strokes Jon’s cheek with the back of his hand. 

“Let me take care of you, Jon. Consider it a thank you.” 

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He nods mutely. 

Elias smiles at him. It seems fond. There’s something lurking under the surface, though, something possessive, Jon thinks, and it makes him grip the blanket so tight his fists shake. 

“Good boy. I’ll meet you downstairs.” 

Before Jon can say anything else, Elias is turning and heading out the door, shutting it behind him with a sharp _click_. 

In a few minutes, he’ll get up and get dressed. In the meantime though, he sits there, a numbness settling over him. Tears roll silently down his cheeks. He just lets them. 

* * *

It’s fairly easy to find the dining room, all things considered. The food smells decent as it wafts through the halls, but it only serves to make Jon feel nauseous, the thought of it making his stomach flip violently in protest. 

“Do I have to eat?” he asks meekly as Elias comes up behind him. 

Elias’s hands have no right to be so gentle as they sit him down in the chair. “I’d like you to try. You haven’t had anything since yesterday.” 

_Gee, wonder why._ “Okay...” Jon swallows, looking up at Elias. He can’t help how childish he feels for it. “You’ll take me home?” 

“I’ll take you home,” Elias confirms, brushing a few stray hairs out of his eyes. “You should take a few days off if you need to. I wouldn’t blame you for it.” 

Jon inhales sharply, the burning in his eyes returning. He looks down at his plate, but he doesn’t touch anything until Elias has sat down across from him, a good distance away. 

He manages to get the peas and half of the mashed potatoes down, despite the circumstances. He even has a few bites of pork chop before his stomach threatens to revolt on him. He tries to ignore the glimmer of pride in Elias’s eyes as he watches him eat. 

He spends a good few moments chugging down the water placed in front of him, before slamming it down (a bit more forcefully than intended, but he’s past caring at this point) and turning to Elias with a desperate expression. “Is that enough?” he asks, a quiver to his voice. “Can I go home? Please?” 

“I think you did good, yes,” Elias says, and Jon nearly sobs with relief. “Are you sure you’d like to be alone now, though? You still seem a bit, mm. Shaky.” 

“I want to go _home_ ,” Jon says again, embarrassed by the pleading tone in his words, “take me _home_.” 

“Alright, alright. No need to get worked up, love.” Elias pushes out of his seat, offering a hand to him. 

Jon doesn’t take it. He stumbles to his feet on his own, clumsily dodging Elias’s attempts to reach for him. He keeps a few paces ahead of him as they make their way to the front door, even if he does make a few wrong turns here and there. 

Elias’s voice sends disgusting tingles down his spine whenever he speaks up to correct him. Jon resists the urge to scratch his own skin off at the feel of it. 

* * *

The car ride is silent, up until they pull up to Jon’s building. Jon doesn’t ask how he knows his address. He just assumes it’s on file somewhere. 

“Before you get out,” Elias says, and terror sinks into the pit of Jon’s stomach. 

“No,” he says, “I’m leaving.” 

He moves to get out of the car, only to find the door locked. Elias grabs his arm, and Jon gags, panic gripping his abdominal muscles. 

“Jon. Relax,” Elias says. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

“Leave me alone.” 

“I just wanted to say that I’m proud of you.” 

Jon hisses, tears welling up in his eyes. “ _Why?_ Why are you saying this?” 

“Because it’s true. Really, you should learn to accept compliments, Jon.” He reaches over and grabs his chin, turning his face toward him. “Our donors were very pleased with your performance.” 

Jon gags again. He feels sick, sick, sick. He doesn’t think he’ll ever not feel sick. 

Elias smiles. He lets his hand drop. 

“Get some rest, Jon,” he says, unlocking the car door. 

Jon scrambles for the handle. He doesn’t look back as he races for his door, and he somehow manages to unlock everything despite the trembling in his hands. 

He collapses as soon as he gets inside, his legs trembling something awful. He spends a moment leaning against his front door, trying to get his breathing under control. Then, his stomach lurches, and he scrambles back to his feet and rushes for the bathroom. 

He pukes up everything he’d managed to choke down at Elias’s place. He doesn’t know why that makes him feel guilty. He doesn’t want to think about it. 

He rinses his mouth out in the sink, before trudging off to his bedroom. He curls up under his blankets, and tries to forget the smell of sweat and ammonia and musk that continue to pervade his nostrils. 

* * *

Jon comes back to work after a week huddled up in his home. 

Just stepping through the threshold is enough to make him sweat, but he thinks he’s going to be okay. At least he hopes so. He’s already gotten multiple messages from his assistants, all worried about his health, and he doesn’t want to stress them out any longer. 

He’s never been so relieved to see Tim’s smile. Sasha waving at him. Martin’s worried forehead crinkles. 

“Hi,” he croaks, before clearing his throat awkwardly. “How’ve you guys been?” 

“Well, Martin here has been worried sick,” Tim says teasingly, patting the man in question on the shoulder. 

Martin makes a noise of protest. “We were _all_ worried,” he says weakly, running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t...you didn’t say anything.” 

“Sorry,” Jon warbles, and that just makes Martin look even more concerned. 

Sasha looks concerned too, actually. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look...” She hums, waving her hand. “You look pale.” 

“I-I’m okay. I’m, I’m going back to work now, if that’s alright with you all.” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just turns on his heel and heads into his office. 

* * *

There’s a bouquet of flowers on his desk. 

It’s stupid, but he literally can’t breathe at the sight of it, the contents of his lungs leaving him in a sharp gasp. The world spins around him, his vision swimming, and he turns on his heel and walks right out of his office. 

He could’ve checked the tag on it. He doesn’t know if they’re from a donor, or from Elias, or even someone else, but he can’t bring himself to get closer. The smell of them is suffocating, and they burn their image into the back of his eyelids, mocking, a taunt of unwanted intimacy. He stumbles through the hallways, trying to get as far away as possible. He doesn’t know where he’s going, or where he is really, and he doesn’t _care_. 

“Jon?” 

Jon startles. He staggers to the side, before tripping over something (nothing?) and falling to his knees. He tips forward, and his cheek collides with someone’s leg. 

“Shit, you okay?” Tim’s voice asks. He reaches over and puts a hand on his shoulder, or the back of his neck, or his head, or somewhere in that vicinity, and something in Jon just breaks. 

He’s crying. Tears are suddenly streaming down his cheeks, and his chest hurts with sobs. His hand comes up and grips Tim’s knee, and he originally means to pull himself, but his whole body is convulsing. All he manages to do is drop his head into his lap, and oh, _This really isn’t workplace appropriate,_ he thinks, perhaps a bit hysterically. 

“O-okay! Well, that’s clearly a no!” 

He’s vaguely aware of being lifted by hands up under his armpits, and then someone drags him into their side. Tim. It’s Tim. Right. He grabs onto his shirt and clings tightly. 

“You’re okay, I got you. I’m just taking you to the break room, if that’s alright?” 

Jon hiccups, and he nods. His legs are shaking, and he’s surprised he’s managing to walk at all, even leaning so heavily on his companion. 

It feels like an eternity, but Tim eventually manages to set him down on the break room couch. Jon collapses into it, muffling his sobs by shoving his fist against his mouth. 

“There you go. You’re alright, I got ya,” Tim murmurs, rubbing his shoulder gently. 

Jon tries to respond, he really does. But he can’t stop _crying_. His attempts to stifle his wailing fail miserably, and he can see Martin hovering in the doorway, Sasha approaching from further down the hallway. 

“Is—is everything okay?” Martin asks gently. “Jon, what’s wrong?” 

Jon shakes his head. He heaves in a shaky, pained breath, and buries his face in his palms. He doesn’t know how to explain why he’s so upset, or if he even wants to. 

“What happened?” Sasha asks. 

Jon shakes his head again. It’s getting really hard to breathe. It feels like he’s drowning in his own tears. _What’s wrong with me?_

Someone sits down next to him, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off of them, but far enough not to be suffocating. He peeks through his fingers and sees Sasha next to him, Martin standing in front of him, wringing his hands. Tim’s hand squeezes his shoulder. 

It’s overwhelming, certainly. He’s not sure he likes so many eyes on him. But an odd part of him feels almost...safer. Like Elias can’t get to him if they’re around. 

“Please don’t leave me,” he sobs quietly, scrubbing his face with the back of his hand. “Please...” 

“We won’t,” Martin says quickly, kneeling down in front of him and squeezing his hand tightly. “Jon, we won’t.” 

“Y-yeah,” Tim stutters out, and Sasha chuckles beside him. “Of course.” 

Sasha hums in agreement. “We’re here as long as you need us, Jon.” 

Jon hiccups, nodding tensely. He squeezes Martin’s hand back, and tries his best to breathe. 

...maybe he’ll tell them. At some point. But for now, this is enough. This is what he needs. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to feel close to normal again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this gave me a mental breakdown so lemme know if you like it I guess lmao


End file.
